


Doubting Hearts

by Liu



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Angst, Feels, Fluff, M/M, Romance, and Erestor wasn't, between two idiots, or why Lindir was in The Hobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erestor leaves Imladris for a few days - Lindir is to be his substitute. The young minstrel's feelings for one half-elven Lord get in the way, though...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubting Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сомневающиеся сердца](https://archiveofourown.org/works/721789) by [silber_mond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silber_mond/pseuds/silber_mond), [Teado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teado/pseuds/Teado)



> So, this was supposed to be short, because I kept thinking 'where was Erestor during The Hobbit?' and I needed to write myself some answers... I don't know why it turned out to be 11k words. Seriously, I don't. There's not even any porn in it.

Lindir took a deep breath and braced himself, looking into the small mirror hung next to his door, trying to convince himself that what he saw in the reflection was someone capable of doing what had been asked of him. But no; he was not fit for this, he knew as much: however, Erestor had placed his trust in him, and so Lindir could only try his hardest to not fail his master and long-time friend.

He stepped outside: Arien was barely over the horizon, bathing the valley in soft shades of peach. Tiny droplets of morning dew glimmered in the first rays of light like crystal, and birds announced their presence with a playful melody. Even after the long centuries of his life here, the breathtaking wonder that was Imladris never ceased to amaze Lindir; nonetheless, he felt far from ready for the difficult task ahead of him.

It wasn’t that Lindir was completely oblivious to state matters – after all, he had been Erestor’s unofficial secretary for more decades than he could count. He was fairly efficient with paperwork and could organize correspondence with practiced ease, but Lindir knew he could not compare to Erestor when it came to actually making the important decisions and remembering thousands of everyday details that needed to be taken into account.

Apparently, for some reason unknown to Lindir, Erestor had decided otherwise. He had come to Lindir but a day ago and announced he was going to visit Lorien for a few days. Great had been Lindir’s surprise when the Chief Counselor had asked him to take his place for the time of his absence. Of course, Lindir had tried to refuse: but Erestor had been adamant in that quiet, intense way of his, and Lindir had found himself nodding his agreement in the end.

“It will be just for a few weeks, a month at most,” Erestor had promised when he had seen distress in his friend’s eyes, “of all I could ask, I trust you the most, my friend.”

After that, Lindir could not have refused even if he had the strength to try: Erestor’s trust was a precious thing in Imladris, for Erestor knew every soul residing in the valley, yet there were few he would call a friend.

Despite how honored Lindir had felt at being the one Elf whom Erestor would trust with such a task, he did not feel ready for such responsibility. It lay heavy in his heart as he made his way to the courtyard that opened to the road out of the valley: he appeared just in time to watch Erestor mount his mare and adjust his light travelling cloak. The counselor greeted Lindir with a glimpse of a smile.

“Good morrow to you, Lindir,” he spoke, and Lindir’s heart tightened with worry, both about his friend, ready to depart for the roads that had not been completely safe in quite some time… and about himself and his capabilities.

“And to you,” he replied, walking closer to pat the mare’s neck. The animal neighed agreeably and pushed its nose into Lindir’s palm: the easy acceptance made the minstrel smile for a moment and pet her again. Then, his chest constricted once more with the feeling of duty he now had not only to the people of Imladris, but to every living being residing within. Lindir looked up at the Noldorin counselor, eyes pleading:

“You still have a moment to reconsider, Erestor. I--”

“You have been a great help to me over the past two hundred years, Lindir, and you have seen me deal with any situation that might arise in my absence,” Erestor cut him off lightly, and let go of the reins to cover Lindir’s hand with his own in a brief, encouraging squeeze. “You will do well, I am certain of it, else I would not ask this of you. When in doubt, you can always come to Lord Elrond for advice,” he added with a tiny smile, even though Lindir knew that the main responsibility of Erestor’s station was to take the weight off their Lord’s shoulders, and to solve small matters on his own instead of bothering Elrond with inane questions.

“But-“ Lindir opened his mouth, and was cut off again:

“It is your chance, _mellonamin_ … I suggest you take it,” Erestor said with a knowing look in his eyes, and Lindir could feel the burn of color in his cheeks as he watched the counselor straighten in his saddle and turn to the road. Fear seized him, fear that Erestor somehow found out what lay hidden in Lindir’s heart… and while it would not surprise the minstrel, for Erestor made it his duty to know everything that happened in Imladris, it would not please him either, as he had tried to hide this particular feeling deep inside his heart where no one could see.

But of course Erestor did not know, Lindir tried to console himself; the counselor must have meant Lindir’s chance to show his talents when it came to helping Lord Elrond run the Last Homely House. Erestor would never be so cruel as to encourage this foolish longing of Lindir’s when there was no such thing as hope in those feelings… even if by some cruel twist of fate he _had_ found out.

Lindir’s eyes followed Erestor’s back as the advisor made his way down the road towards the Golden Woods; his grim musings were interrupted mere moments later by one of the servants, asking a thing or two about the household’s inventory. For once, Lindir was all too glad to have something to occupy his mind instead of the thoughts that never led to a particularly happy conclusion… but he could not help the burn of doubt in his mind haunting him for the rest of the morning. Just how much Erestor knew, really…?

……

The first few days passed in a blur. Not a moment went by that someone would not seek Lindir’s decision or advice: and though the young elf did the best he could, he knew that Erestor would have judged more wisely, decided more quickly. He was constantly plagued with doubts, and with self-conscious fear of failing Erestor’s (and Elrond’s) trust.

But the steady amount of work also made Lindir occupied enough so that he did not have too much time to think about such things: he had a lot to focus on, and with every moment, his admiration for Erestor steadily grew. Despite being the Chief Counselor’s unofficial secretary for two centuries, Lindir still had not known the whole extent of Erestor’s duty, and only now, when he was burdened with it himself, could he appreciate and admire the efficiency Erestor employed every day to manage everything just in time. Many thought Erestor a loner, and Lindir had thought the same once; now that he himself had to stay hunched over documents and lists and treaties instead of enjoying a meal and a song in the Hall of Fire, he understood Erestor’s seclusion.

Well after sunset, when Lindir’s eyes began to sting from the faint light of candles and from the sheer amount of work that still awaited his attention, a servant appeared with a tray: thin slices of cheese and freshly cut fruit, and herbal tea that smelled divine to Lindir’s tired senses. He was in no state to question the attention: it was possible that one of the younger assistant counselors had seen Lindir stay behind, and was considerate enough to care about the minstrel’s stomach. He took a short break from work then, devouring the food delivered to him, and sipped the invigorating tea as he got back to the documents that needed careful study.

Lindir barely had the time to sleep: he could not understand how Erestor managed to appear so calm and collected all the time, when there was always so much to do. Lindir himself felt the lack of sleep and the abundance of duties get to him after but a few days. At one such morning, when he tried to focus on the inventory lists in front of him instead of thinking about how inviting that sofa under the window looked, a sentry burst into his office without knocking. Lindir looked up from his work, woken up by the intrusion; he knew Erestor would not leave such behavior without reprimand, but he did not feel fit to chide the distressed archer.

“What is it, Taeglin?” Lindir asked slowly, hoping he got the name right: by the look of it, he either did, or the elf was too agitated to care about any mistakes.

“Orcs, Master Lindir! Almost at the secret passage!”

Lindir jumped up from his chair and was halfway to Lord Elrond’s private library before he could think twice, cold sweat on his brow and the unfortunate archer at his heels. Erestor’s words rang in his ears; _you have seen me deal with any situation that might arise_. Lindir had to suppress a panicked snort: he had never known Orcs to get this close to any entrance to the valley before: but of course, such emergency would come on Lindir’s watch.

He finally reached the fine mahogany door and knocked, not giving himself room for shyness. This was not the time to be coy or childish; much more was at stake than his dignity. Lindir pushed the door open resolutely, as he had seen Erestor do on more than one occasion: but the difference in station that he felt like a sting in his heart was immense. Erestor was one of the oldest Elves residing in the valley, had fought many a battle and solved many a crisis with just his wit; Lord Elrond saw him as an equal. Lindir was a mere minstrel who sometimes dabbled in politics, far too young to be regarded as anything but a child, in his opinion.

So he could not help if his hands shook as his Lord looked up from this desk and pierced him with his grey gaze.

“What is it, Lindir?” Elrond spoke, and Lindir swallowed, bowing lightly in apology for the way he had entered.

“My Lord,” he began, his voice just as unsteady as his hands. “Orcs… they have come far too close to the secret passage.”

Elrond stood from his desk, a dark frown creasing his brow: it was as if he grew instantly in his anger, and Lindir held back a gasp of surprise. Usually, Lord Elrond was an image of calm, ancient wisdom: yet at the moment, his eyes took on the color of storm clouds and his body assumed the stance of a warrior instead of a scholar.

“Inform Glorfindel. We will ride out shortly,” he said, his voice clipped and tight, and Lindir’s eyes widened at the implication.

“But… my Lord…”

Elrond flashed him a look that made something in Lindir cower and step back.

“We will ride out shortly,” he repeated resolutely, and then shifted his gaze to the archer behind Lindir. The soldier must have understood as he practically ran out of the room, and Lindir did his best to catch his breath. He had never seen Elrond this fierce before: and though Lindir knew that the anger in Elrond’s eyes was not aimed at him personally, seeing it up close made him realize once again the vast difference between them… and also between him and Erestor. Had the chief counselor been here, he would have been able to find the right words and convince Lord Elrond that riding out himself to fight the Orcs was foolishness; Erestor would not cringe at a mere look from Elrond, he would push back and make Elrond see reason… and stay safe.

All Lindir could do was swallow and look away, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Come with me, Lindir,” Elrond barked an order and Lindir’s body obeyed without thinking; they took a narrow corridor towards the west side of the house. Towards the armory, Lindir realized, and fear seized him: honest, heartfelt fear for his Lord, and cowardly, weak fear for himself. Did Lord Elrond expect Lindir to ride out with him…? Erestor would have, probably… Erestor had fought in many a war, he would be a valued addition in fighting the foul creatures away from Imladris’ borders. Lindir, on the other side, had been taught how to hold a sword and not hurt himself, but he had always focused more on handling a lute than handling a weapon, and he was not sure he could hold his ground against Orcs.

Elrond opened the armory door with a resolute push: in the next moment, he was shrugging out of his heavy robes, and Lindir’s breath caught in his throat. Even after centuries out of real battles, Elrond was magnificent; his shoulders were wide and his waist narrow, and his leggings hugged his muscular thighs in a way that made Lindir’s mouth go dry. He averted his eyes, feeling a faint blush creep up his neck.

“You will help me with the armor,” Elrond said as he moved around the room, collecting bracers and armguards and various other bits and pieces that made up the standard Imladris protection: Lindir’s eyes went wide at the implication and he could not move for a moment, blinking at his Lord.

“Hurry, Lindir,” Elrond huffed and pulled a fine silvery chain-mail tunic over his head: it pulled a few strands of his dark hair astray, and Lindir’s eyes followed it as the minstrel longed to reach out and smooth down the ebony locks. Then, he made himself snap out of his haze and took the breast plate from the pile Lord Elrond had gathered.

His fingers trembled as he fastened the straps around his Lord’s body, closer than he would have ever dared to dream: he imagined he could feel warmth even through the metal of the chain-mail, and when he was attaching the shoulder-guards, he almost dropped the beautifully crafted piece as his fingers involuntarily brushed Elrond’s bare neck. Lindir’s stomach was in tight twists and knots, and his heart fluttered madly in his chest, aching at the mere thought that his Lord might get hurt in the fight.

That thought steadied Lindir’s hands: he refused to be the one who endangered Elrond with clumsy carelessness. His heart kept its frantic rhythm, but Lindir disregarded it and cleared his head, focusing on the intricate system of clasps and belts and chains, preparing his Lord as best he could. Finally, Elrond’s armor was complete: he picked up his helmet at last, holding it in one hand as he turned to Lindir and stole his breath away again. If Elrond had been magnificent in nothing but a linen shirt and leggings, he was stunningly regal in armor, a figure straight out of the songs Lindir so loved. Verses sprang into the minstrel’s mind as he gazed upon his Lord in admiration, and well-hidden love swelled his chest: Elrond clasped a heavy hand in a silvery glove over Lindir’s shoulder.

“I trust you to keep order until I return,” Elrond spoke, quiet for a moment, then fierceness returned to his eyes as he strode to the door, leaving Lindir amongst stacks of shields and spears, shoulder burning with the memory of Elrond’s touch, heart heavy with longing, and mind dazed with fear and prayers towards the Valar for his beloved’s safety.

………………………………..

And then, dwarves appeared, accompanied by a Halfling and led by Mithrandir. Lindir did his utmost to appear composed and polite, yet his mind was plagued with doubts. While there was no open hostility between Imladris and any dwarven land, the relations were far from cordial, and Lindir worried about what Lord Elrond might say if Lindir invited the dwarves in without questioning their motives… or if he drove some important guests away, souring the fragile bonds even further. He knew Mithrandir could see the doubts in his heart: he asked after Lord Elrond immediately, and Lindir was not even sure he should reveal how shaken up the borders of Imladris were becoming, tormented by Orcs.

Just as Lindir was about to talk to the wizard, he could hear the thundering echo of hooves on stone: Lord Elrond stormed into the courtyard with Lord Glorfindel and their troops, cutting off the dwarves completely. They all stank of Orc blood, their shining armor dimmed by the dirt of battle; and yet, Lindir’s heart missed a beat or two as he gazed upon his Lord, safe and sound before him, eyes still blazing with the heat of a fight.

Every moment that Lindir had to spend issuing orders about the accommodation of the guests was torment to him; when the dwarves were finally accompanied to their rooms, Lindir heaved a momentary sigh of relief before hurrying to his Lord’s chambers. He had never dared to trespass there, but now, his responsibilities were to Elrond’s safety and well-being more than to his own cowardice; Lindir resolutely crossed the distance and knocked on the fancifully carved door.

“My Lord Elrond?” he asked quietly, and soon, he heard a soft ‘Enter’ from within. Lindir pushed the door open, and he was greeted by the sight of various pieces of armor scattered over the floor, and Elrond-

“My Lord, you are hurt!” Lindir exclaimed, eyes wide and stomach lurching. Was it his fault? Had he tied the bracer wrong…?

Elrond looked up from the bandage he had been wrapping around his wrist, and frowned at the minstrel:

“It is merely a light sprain. I will live,” he smirked cynically, and Lindir blushed, hand unconsciously half outstretched towards his Lord’s injury.

“Let me tend to your wrist,” Lindir demanded quietly: along the edge of the half-tied bandage, he could see the reddened skin and felt immensely guilty.

Lord Elrond’s frown remained in place as he stared at the young elf:

“What was it you came here for, Lindir?”

Taken aback, Lindir could not but speak the truth, stumbling over his own words.

“I- I was worried about you, my Lord… let me fetch the ointment-“ he half-turned to the door, in his mind already thinking of the shortest way to the healer’s room, when his Lord’s voice stopped him.

“I am more than capable of dealing with this minor setback on my own,” Elrond’s words bit, and Lindir cursed his own foolishness: of course the Master Healer would have no trouble with healing himself. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? His irrational fear for his Lord’s safety had clouded his mind...

“Is that all?” Elrond raised an eyebrow; Lindir felt his shoulders sag in embarrassment.

“Yes, my Lord. I apologize-“

“Then, unless you wish to join me in my bath, I suggest you take your leave now.”

The words cut through Lindir’s heart like lightning and his eyes shot up from the floor to meet his Lord’s gaze. For a moment, Lindir stood there, rooted to place by some invisible force, frozen in shock and horror and hope. For a moment, he could feel something transpire that he could name, something brought on most likely by his foolish longing; for a moment, Lindir’s mind was clear, save for two words. _He knows_. Then, his shame took better of him, and Lindir bowed deep, bolting from the room without as much as a word.

He had not realized how difficult it had been to breathe until fresh, sweet-scented wind from the gardens caressed his face: Lindir took long gulps of it in an attempt to calm down his frantically racing heart. No… just as Erestor could not know, Lord Elrond didn’t. It was just Lindir’s mind, playing tricks on him… it was the Valar’s punishment for Lindir’s carelessness. He would have to do better from now on… Lindir took a last long breath and let go of the railing he had not known he was clutching. He straightened his robes, schooled his face into a polite, yet unreadable mask, as he had seen Erestor do so many times before, and walked towards his duties, composed on the outside and shaken inside.

……………………..

For the welcoming feast, Lindir did his best to remain calm, at least on the surface, and avoided Lord Elrond’s eyes as much as possible. He made no sign of his earlier embarrassment, and his Lord did not bring it up on his own; Lindir’s heart beat madly every time his Lord turned to him, but they were all minor questions with which he could deal as a counselor should.

He longed to retire to the solitude of his room, but as Erestor’s substitute, he could do nothing of the sort. Even music which usually brought him joy sounded dull in his ears: he could not join the minstrels, for he had to be available to Lord Elrond’s requests… yet Lindir suspected that even with a lute or a harp in his hands, he would not be able to perform up to his own standards that night.

When the feast was finally over and the last of the elves were leaving, Lord Elrond’s hand on his shoulder stopped Lindir from doing the same. He looked at his Lord, hiding the fear that seized his heart. Would he be asked to give up his temporary position to another, more capable advisor? It would not be an unwise choice; Lindir felt there were a few who could perform his current duty much better, and without unwanted lapses of judgment like he had shown earlier. Yet the thought left his mouth dry: he would be unable to look Erestor in the eyes for a long time, having failed his trust like this…

“You did well today, Lindir,” Elrond spoke, and Lindir’s eyes inadvertently widened in surprise.

“My Lord…?” he asked quietly: the warmth of Elrond’s hand seeped through the thick fabric of Lindir’s robes, and he was unnecessarily reminded of that afternoon, when his own fingers had brushed against his Lord’s skin in the armory… Lindir felt heat in his cheeks again and he bowed to mask his bewilderment.

“Thank you, my Lord. If you do not require my services for the evening…?” he asked quietly.

Elrond was silent for a moment, and Lindir’s wild thoughts tangled around the memory of his Lord’s words from earlier. _Unless you wish to join me in my bath…_ Would he require Lindir’s services of some kind…? The minstrel did not dare to even think too much about it, for it would bring more embarrassment, and that was the last thing he needed.

“No, no… get some rest, you deserve it,” Elrond spoke in the end, his hand leaving Lindir’s shoulder as the half-elf passed Lindir on his way to the door. Lindir could not help but take a shaky breath: his Lord’s scent, soap and herbs and warmth, invaded his senses, making him tremble with longing and shame.

He stood there until his heart calmed down, until he could trust his legs again, and then went about putting out all the flickering candles in the Hall of Fire. Despite his Lord’s encouragement, Lindir found little rest that night, plagued by dreams which he could not remember clearly in the morning, but which brought more shame to his heart and heat to his cheeks.

……………………………..

Lindir struggled to keep his composure for the next few days. He pored over the documents that needed sorting, managed the servants, signed rosters for the guards, and generally made himself useful in any way he could.

Yet he could not always avoid his Lord’s presence: there were matters which only Elrond could decide, and situations when Lindir needed to stand behind Lord Elrond’s back as his faithful shadow. Lindir did his best to remain a barely-seen presence in the shadows, but he was far from Erestor’s silent serenity, and felt as if more eyes were trained on him at all times than there should be. He felt restless more often than not, wishing he could be elsewhere, but he endured this duty as he had endured any other, and longed for the time when Erestor would return.

It came sooner than expected; but first, more unexpected guests arrived. Lady Galadriel was one of those who came to talk to Mithrandir, and while Lindir had felt fidgety before, he had to collect the last bits of his willpower to remain at least outwardly calm in the Lady’s presence. There was something eerie in that way she always had of knowing the minds of others, and Lindir dreaded she would look into his heart and see what was hidden and trembling in the corner of it.

The dwarves had fled: after nearly two weeks of recuperation and rest in Imladris, they left without as much as a word, and when Lindir brought the news, Lord Elrond immediately excused himself. Lindir knew nothing of his intentions, but he was secretly relieved that he was now allowed to leave the pavilion overlooking the valley and go back to his usual duties, far from the Lady’s searching look.

A cold shiver slithered down his spine as he felt a presence in his mind, and he stopped in the doorway, his back turned to the guests and his hands unsteady yet again.

_You hide much love in your heart, Lindir of Imladris,_ she spoke without a sound, her voice a clear bell in the minstrel’s mind. _Words have a power to bring you that which you desire, if only you let your heart be truthful instead of tormenting yourself_.

Lindir remembered it all again; the brush of a touch against tanned skin, the warmth of a hand on his shoulder, concern in grey eyes from long ago, tenderness in the voice that could command armies if needed. And in that brief moment, Lindir knew how it would feel to have all that within his reach, to be shielded from the world in the strong arms he had admired for so long; he could smell the scent of healing herbs in dark hair, so smooth against his cheek.

And he could not stand that knowledge, for it was deeper and truer than anything his dreams could have ever brought him, more vivid than any picture his imagination could paint. Lindir’s eyes filled with tears of desperation: he was released from the Lady’s spell in a blink of an eye, but it felt to him as if eternity had passed, eternity of knowing what it was he could never have.

He descended the stone steps from the pavilion slowly, his knees unsteady as if they were insecure in carrying the weight of his burden. Lindir could neither see the beauty of the valley at sundown nor hear the clear voices carrying through the air from the Hall of Fire: his mind was filled with the knowledge he had never asked for, knowledge of losing that which he never had, and he was shaken to the core in a way he had not known before.

Without thinking, his feet had brought him to a certain door; Lindir startled when he was suddenly looking at the carved wood of Elrond’s private rooms. Why was it that he ended up where he dreaded to be…?

_If only you let your heart be truthful_ , a remembered voice shimmered in his mind, touching his heart with the memory of what he had felt mere moments ago. Safety, assurance, and love, so much love that no song or poem could have prepared him for the strength it had given him, if only for the briefest while.

He drew upon this strength as he brought his hand to the ornamental surface and knocked, not shyly and quietly as he always had before, but resolutely, truly wishing to be heard.

For a moment, he wondered if his Lord had not gone elsewhere; but a quiet voice bade him to enter, and so Lindir did, and found Elrond seated by the fireplace, a golden goblet in his hand and the warm glow of the fire reflecting in his eyes. He was darkness and light in one, unearthly beauty and striking strength, and Lindir allowed himself a moment to bask in the pure grandeur of him, filling the minstrel’s heart with courage.

“My Lord,” he began and his voice was quiet, for he dreaded to break the beauty of the moment. Words did not come to him as his Lord gazed upon him with questions in his brilliant eyes, and so Lindir let his heart take action and he closed the distance between them slowly, savoring each step as it made his whole being overflow with hope. He knew his feelings were no longer obscure to anyone; he let them out for once, his love for his Lord guiding him, warming him like a cloak about his shoulders.

He fell to his knees at his Lord’s side like one would in a prayer; his Lord’s eyes followed him, a warm grey of a summer rain, and Lindir gently took his hand, cradling it in his palms like a sculpture made of glass. But the skin under Lindir’s touch was warm, so warm, and he could not speak his heart, for there was too much in it, feelings that could not be described with much-repeated verses or words. Lindir bowed his head in silent awe at the tranquility that suddenly filled him, despite his racing heart, and he slowly lifted his Lord’s hand to his lips. They conveyed what his voice could not, pressed the meaning directly into his Lord’s skin, reverence and devotion that had defined Lindir’s being for such a long time that he believed it forever.

Gentle fingers touched his cheek, brought his gaze up, towards those eyes that both haunted and strengthened Lindir, and for the first time in his life, he dared to look upon his Lord’s face openly… hopefully.

His grey eyes were warm as they studied Lindir as if they could read in his soul like in an open book: and they could, for Lindir wished it so, for once.

“I shall not have need of your assistance this evening… rest well, Lindir,” Elrond spoke, not loud, but resolute, and the warmth in his gaze turned to weariness before he shifted his look towards the fire. Lindir could hear his hope shatter to pieces, leaving his heart empty just as his hands felt when Lord Elrond pulled his own hand away, gently, subtly showing Lindir what a fool he had been, letting himself be charmed by the promises of his own silly, wishful heart.

He did not know how he managed to stand: his mind was blank and his heart seized in pain, and he could not see his Lord’s face for the tears that brimmed in his eyes. Lindir fled, for that was the only thing he could do: it seemed a truthful image of his cowardice. He should have never let himself be fooled so; he should have never believed for a moment that Lord Elrond could want him, a mere minstrel, a mere child in comparison.

Lindir had just broken it all… the trust he had been working so hard on gaining, the comfort of having a home he could return to. He felt loneliness grip his soul in icy hands, and he could not fight the flare of panic in his chest. He could not stay now, he saw it clearly. He had thought he could pretend until the end of his days, hide his heart from the sight of those who had never wished to see the darkness hiding inside; but his misstep tonight had broken the dam, and Lindir knew he could never look Lord Elrond in the eyes again.

He sobbed, furiously trying to contain his tears as he reached his room. This was no time for empty weeping: he would have time enough for that once he was on the road, far away from his burning shame that gazed at him from every corner, as if the whole valley was but an extension of Lord Elrond’s pitying eyes.

He had barely managed to throw a few shirts into the old sack he had kept under his bed, when the door to his small room creaked open, and Lindir startled, horrified it might be Lord Elrond.

It was Erestor instead, the light travelling cloak still draped over his shoulders with all the dust of the roads, and he appeared troubled.

“What are you doing?” he asked without preamble; Lindir averted his eyes, but his hands stilled, fingers clawing in the worn fabric of the tunic he was holding.

“I have failed you,” he said quietly, not daring to speak any louder for fear of breaking completely.

The door creaked again and for a moment, Lindir could almost see Erestor walking away, disappointed: instead, he could hear footsteps coming closer, and then Erestor’s hands were on Lindir’s shoulders, turning the minstrel to face the older elf.

“How come you are back already?” Lindir asked almost voicelessly, wishing Erestor would focus on talking of his journey instead of Lindir’s failures: he should have known better, really. Then again, tonight seemed to be a time of horrible decisions for Lindir.

He could hear Erestor’s frown in his voice as the counselor spoke.

“Lady Galadriel sent words to me before I reached Lorien; I hurried back, though I could not match her speed. Now, tell me, Lindir… what has you in such a state?” Erestor asked, and his hand reached for Lindir’s cheek. The light touch reminded the minstrel of different fingers, of different eyes that looked at him with pity, and he broke inside in ways he could no longer hold back.

Erestor’s arms curled around Lindir’s shoulders and drew him into an embrace as tears spilled down the minstrel’s cheeks; he panted his sorrow into Erestor’s chest, clutching at the counselor’s cloak as if it could save him from his shame. And Erestor let him, for a long while, holding Lindir’s shaking body and accepting the grief and horror that soaked his shirt.

When Lindir’s eyes had no more tears, he told Erestor everything; words that he could not find before Lord Elrond flooded him, words of love and longing and torment; Lindir spoke about his fears and his wishes, and of the way he had felt with Lady Galadriel’s spell upon him. He admitted to Erestor what he had done; the counselor merely frowned thoughtfully.

“Is that why you were packing?” Erestor asked, nodding towards the half-filled travelling sack on Lindir’s bed.

 “Yes,” Lindir merely nodded, pulling away from his friend, “I cannot stay here, Erestor. I will leave Imladris-”

“And go where?” Erestor interrupted sharply, his hands tightening on Lindir’s shoulders, not allowing the minstrel to move away. “Is it this ridiculous notion of disgrace you wish to escape?! Then where would you go, _mellonamin_? Lorien is ruled by the very Lady you fear so; many years have passed since Mirkwood was hospitable to anyone, and Lindon’s glory has diminished to almost nothing. You can hardly protect yourself from the many dangers on the road; you would only bring doom to yourself, and to those who care about you. There is nothing disgraceful about love, be it returned or not… you would do well to reconsider your hasty decision, Lindir.”

Lindir could hear the concern in his friend’s words; he sighed, hanging his head in defeat. He felt so tired all of a sudden: the fire within his body was gone, and all he wanted was to get away from everything, seek peace in solitude and not have to face Lord Elrond ever again.

“Promise me,” Erestor insisted, leaning down slightly to look into Lindir’s reddened eyes. “Promise me, Lindir, that you will stay, at least for a few days, until you think it through… I will not hold you back if your decision remains the same, but please, allow yourself time to think.”

Lindir sighed, looking up at Erestor: there was true worry in those dark eyes, and Lindir could never stand it if he brought pain to someone else. He was not blinded by his pain enough to believe that no one in Imladris cared about him; he knew Erestor saw in him a trusted friend... leaving like this would hurt the counselor.

“Only for a few days,” he muttered quietly, his throat hoarse and dry from all those tears. Erestor offered a gentle smile as he squeezed Lindir’s shoulder encouragingly:

“Promise me you will not disappear without saying good-bye.”

“I promise.”

…………………………………………….

Elrond stared into the fire with a deep frown, swirling the heavy wine in his goblet slowly. The look in the elfling’s eyes as he fled Elrond’s rooms… it weighed heavy in Elrond’s mind.

The door opened almost without a sound: for a moment, Elrond’s shoulders tensed as he wondered if Lindir had come back to bring even more chaos into Elrond’s thoughts.

Then, a familiar voice tore him out of his reverie.

“Has your age finally driven you mad?”

Elrond glanced over his shoulder to the door, smiling wryly at his chief advisor. Erestor had not even taken the time to change out of his travelling clothes: he was rumpled and unkempt in a way that was extremely rare for the pristine counselor; it betrayed the importance Erestor was ascribing to the situation at hand.

And Elrond was not foolish enough to even try to pretend that Erestor did not know what had transpired: Erestor had a way of knowing, always knowing, especially when it came to those whom he trusted with his affections.

“Glad to have you back, Erestor,” he spoke with a small smile, but Erestor matched Elrond’s avoidance with stubborn determination to solve the matter.

“Why have you pushed Lindir away?” he pressed on, and Elrond averted his eyes back towards the fire. Why indeed…

“Direct as always,” Elrond stalled for a moment longer, heaving a sigh towards the flames. In the end, he could not but speak the truth. “I cannot accept his feelings, _mellonamin_.”

Erestor kept quiet for a long while; he busied himself undoing the fastenings of his cloak. Draping the heavy, dust-stained fabric over the armrest of the nearest chair, the advisor sat down opposite Elrond, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His expression was pensive when Elrond looked at him; Elrond knew that Erestor was trying to make sense of it all, to help.

Elrond was not so sure that thinking would do any good here.

Erestor looked at him eventually, his dark eyes solemn in the firelight.

“You cannot accept Lindir’s feelings… because you do not return them, or because you are afraid of them?”

“Afraid…?” Elrond repeated slowly, and his eyebrow rose as he was taken aback by his advisor’s and friend’s forwardness. He mulled it over, sipping his wine and trying to find his answers in the flames. In such times, Elrond felt too old for living… and not nearly old enough for decisions like these.

“He is too young,” Elrond spoke in the end, “barely half the age of my children, Erestor.”

He knew it was not the only reason – and Erestor knew just as much, for he shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“Yet he is centuries over majority. How old were you when love first seized your heart?”

Elrond thought back to that time… he had been younger than Lindir, much younger indeed… and yet he had known with certainty that what resided in his heart was love. Even now, millennia later, Elrond would not doubt the sincerity of what he had felt then… love did not need an ancient mind, merely an open heart.

With a heavy sigh, Elrond rose from his chair, emptying his goblet completely in one long gulp. Silence fell over them, save for the crackling of logs and clinking of glass when Elrond went to refill his goblet; momentarily, he wondered if he could ask Erestor to leave and get some rest, leave Elrond to his thoughts. But they knew each other too well; Elrond recognized the set of Erestor’s shoulders, the determination to talk this through… and Erestor must have known that talking was what Elrond needed… if not what he wanted.

He offered another goblet to his friend, and sat down heavily, feeling the weight of all his years for a moment. Erestor studied him, but said nothing – finally, words came to Elrond through the haze of memories.

“It is not love Lindir feels,” he spoke quietly, remembering the adoring looks of the elfling. “Admiration, possibly. Worship of legends, nothing more.”

At that, Erestor’s frown was almost palpable in the air.

“If you do not possess the courage to talk to him properly, at least have respect for his feelings,” the advisor said, his voice low and thrumming with thinly veiled displeasure. “Do not ridicule his heart simply because you cannot be true to your own.”

“You dare call me a coward?!” Elrond looked sharply at his friend, rage welling in the pit of his stomach. “Pray tell me, what is cowardly about recognizing that things could never work between us?!”

Erestor simply shrugged, looking away into the fire again.

“Not taking that chance. That seems cowardly to me, and to anyone you would ask.”

“Maybe it is,” Elrond barked, spiteful towards Erestor and towards the world all of a sudden. How dared Erestor call him a coward?! For a moment, Elrond’s pride swelled in him like poisonous air, and it occurred to him that he could send Erestor away: he was still the Lord of this house and would not be insulted in his own chambers. That thought made Elrond realize the foolishness of his anger; what were friends for, if not for pointing out the folly of one’s ways? As the irritation seeped out of his mind, it left Elrond weary and drained.

“I cannot, Erestor,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers in a tired gesture, once again reminded of his age… and of Lindir’s. “He is young, and he wants things I cannot give him. He should find someone his age… a maiden who would give him children. Someone who would be able to love him in the way he deserves.”

Erestor nodded at that: Elrond could feel his friend’s eyes on him, studying, trying to get inside his head. Erestor possessed no powers such as the Lady of the Golden Woods; but sometimes, Elrond couldn’t but wonder, for Erestor knew things that Elrond would not speak of aloud.

“Lindir deserves love, does he not,” Erestor nodded, seemingly talking to himself. “Someone who would take good care of him… someone who would send him supper when he is busy with work, and maybe some special tea,” the advisor added with a hint of amusement in his tone, and Elrond frowned, then sighed, covering his eyes with his hand.

“So you know about that as well,” he commented dryly: how could he have thought something would escape Erestor’s attention…? At that moment, Elrond felt unwilling to accept the unspoken accusations in Erestor’s words. “It was nothing; he needed to eat, Erestor, the sheer amount of your work is ridiculous even for you, and impossible for someone so young-“

“And yet you have never sent _me_ fruits when I was swamped with your paperwork,” Erestor pointed out, not even bothering to hide his amusement anymore.

Elrond frowned in response, shaking his head.

“A plate of fruits is not much, compared to what he might want from me,” he spoke quietly, staring into the fire.

“And how do you know what he wants?” Erestor countered, equally quiet. “Have you talked to him? No… you have dismissed him without as much as hearing him out.”

“He was not doing much talking, Erestor…” the half-elven Lord sighed at the swirl of feelings that seized his heart when he thought back to that moment, Lindir at his side, his warm lips against his skin… Elrond shook his head again, trying to rid his mind of such distractions. He was old enough to resist the temptations such as those, for the sake of his people, for the good of the ones he held dear. And it was not him Lindir wanted… it was a man, a Lord, from songs and legends and heroic poetry.

“For Valar’s sake, he knelt at my side!” Elrond exclaimed, distressed all of a sudden, wishing Erestor to understand. “He always made me out to be this great legend, and I cannot do that. I cannot be a hero even behind the closed door of my chambers,” he finished almost inaudibly, his own voice roaring in his ears. There were so many reasons why he could not accept Lindir’s feelings… but this one probably stung the most. Elrond was strong, he had always been, for the sake of his brother first, then for the sake of others he had commanded, for the sake of his wife, and then his children, and his valley. His brother had chosen mortality, many of those he had commanded had found their deaths on battlefield, and in the end, he could not save his wife from the despair that drove her to sail for Valinor. Rationally, he knew he had made the right choices, he knew he could not have prevented anything, had he chosen differently. But…

He could not try to be strong for someone else again.

It took Erestor a while to answer, and his voice was calm and compassionate as he reached out, placing a comforting hand on Elrond’s knee. “And yet, knowing that, you still look upon him with fondness.”

Elrond met the dark gaze of his advisor and friend with a sigh.

“Fondness such as that which I hold for my children, Erestor.”

“No…” Erestor shook his head, his eyes determined. “I have known you for long enough to not be fooled, _mellonamin_. You look at Lindir as once you had at Celebrían, back when you believed yourself unworthy of her love.”

Elrond could not help but cringe at the mention of his wife, looked away towards the fire.

“Ah,” Erestor said softly, “so that is what you worry about? Four hundred and forty years have passed since she sailed, Elrond, there is no one who would begrudge you-”

“Enough, Erestor,” the Peredhel cut off the talk that sounded foolish and dangerous to his ears. “You know not what you speak.”

“Oh, but I know,” Erestor shook his head, leaning back in his chair again. Elrond was glad for the little space the motion granted him; he could not but feel caged in his own room nonetheless.

“I know,” Erestor repeated, “and as I am the only one who would tell you this, you will hear me. It has been too long, Elrond, and while you might tell yourself otherwise, your heart is not yet incapable of loving as you have once loved Lady Celebrían.”

“I have never-” Elrond started with indignation, but as he looked at his advisor, Erestor raised his hand in a simple gesture, and Elrond frowned at him, silenced. Truly, it was a wonder why he was still the official Lord of Imladris, when Erestor could handle him with such ease if he put his mind to it… 

“Yes,” Erestor nodded, “you have never thought of another in the two and a half millennia you were wed to her, and you have not allowed your heart to feel freely ever since she’s left… but Elrond… I was there when she released you of your vows,” he reminded quietly, and Elrond let out a heavy sigh.

“I have never acknowledged it,” he said, voice heavy with the memory of that fateful day, when he stood at the bank of Lhȗn and said his farewells to his wife, who told him to not hold back if love ever found him again.

“That is what I am trying to say, _mellonamin_ ,” Erestor sighed affectionately, leaning close to touch Elrond’s shoulder, “her heart was wounded so that it would never heal… she knew of her affliction, she knew she would never be able to truly love again, not with the darkness in her mind… and if you refuse to see her wisdom in allowing you to seek your happiness, then it is your choice alone.”

“Whether she will one day be capable of love or not… I see her in our children,” Elrond whispered towards the flames. “I can never forget my love for her.”

“I do not believe that is what Lindir would want from you,” Erestor insisted quietly.

They remained silent for quite some time, sipping wine and staring into the flames, each lost in his own memories. Elrond rose heavily from his seat in the end, sighing.

“Leave me now, I wish to rest,” he said quietly, and Erestor followed suit, rising from his chair and walking to the door. He turned one last time to the weary Lord of Imladris, voice quiet and resigned.

“I shall leave, if that is your wish… but he will as well, and it will not be an easy task, finding him when you finally come to your senses.”

“It is too late for riddles,” Elrond frowned. “Speak your mind, Erestor… or leave me to my thoughts.”

“Lindir wishes to leave Imladris,” Erestor said simply, and Elrond turned to him quickly, weariness leaving his features momentarily to let shock settle in.

“What?!” the half-elven Lord gasped, and Erestor’s wry smile was his answer:

“Ah, I see I have your attention now.”                                                         

“Do not play games with me, Erestor, I warn you…” Elrond scowled, his hands tensing in a wish to curl into fists. If Erestor was manipulating him to steer him in that direction-

“It is no game,” Erestor shook his head, and his sincerity worried Elrond even more. “Lindir is deeply hurt – that is why I cannot believe that his feelings for you are anything less that love.”

Elrond’s lips tightened: he did not trust himself to speak for a moment, for his urge was to run out of the door and seek out his young minstrel… but Lindir was not his, and could not be. So much lay in their path, things even Erestor did not know, things that would come to pass in but a short time… Elrond saw the future, spoke of it to Galadriel, and they both knew the age of Elves in Middle-Earth was coming to an end. Could Elrond carry love for another, knowing he would be reunited with his wife in but a few decades, maybe centuries…?

He frowned deeply as his thoughts once more prevailed over what might have been in his heart.

“Do not ask me to accept what I know I cannot bear,” he spoke quietly, and Erestor sighed.

“I am not asking you to give that which you do not possess, Elrond. But I know you, and I see the way you look when he is near… hear one last thing I have to say. Do you know who encouraged Lindir to show you his feelings?”

When Elrond shook his head, Erestor smiled sadly:

“Lady Galadriel. And she can see into his heart… and yours. Ask yourself what that means, _mellonamin_ … I will attempt to hold Lindir back until you decide. At the very least, he deserves more than pity and easy dismissal. One way or another… it is only you who can keep him from leaving us. Think of that before you rest tonight.”

With that, Erestor was gone, and Elrond was left alone to his doubts, facing a decision that had been thrust upon him without his wish, a decision for which he did not feel prepared.

………………………………………….

When Erestor returned, Lindir looked up with fear. The counselor had been gone for a long time, and Lindir began to worry if Erestor’s mind had not changed. Maybe Lord Elrond persuaded Erestor to let Lindir go… and while the minstrel knew it would be for the best, he also dreaded leaving his home of long centuries. Yes, he had acted rashly and tried to run away; but after he had calmed down, he saw the foolishness of his thinking. Erestor had been right; Imladris had always been a safe haven, and Lindir could not imagine living elsewhere.

Without thinking, he rose from his bed as he saw Erestor at his door: he was unable to conceal his worry, and Erestor walked to him at once, pulling Lindir into a near brotherly embrace once more.

“All is not lost, my friend,” he spoke quietly, and Lindir’s eyes widened: he pulled away from Erestor, a question in his eyes as well as on his lips:

“What do you mean…?”

Erestor sighed, shaking his head:

“Your hopes are not in vain, Lindir… but I shall tell you no more for now. Even I do not know how things will fall into place… but you have to think of yourself, _mellonamin_. Trust in yourself. You are too insecure about your own place here… you are valued, Lindir, and not only for your music. You have to fight this doubt that eats away at your heart.”

Lindir’s eyes widened at that, recognizing how true his friend’s words rang. Indeed he did not trust himself…

“I can never be equal to you,” Lindir whispered, his insecurity getting the better of him again. He was not worthy of Erestor’s trust – he had nearly broken under the strain of Erestor’s duties. When Lindir imagined that he had dared to feel what he felt for Lord Elrond, of all people, he shivered at his own foolishness. Of course Lord Elrond would reject him – he had to be insane to have believed otherwise.

Erestor frowned at him, and his hands tightened around Lindir’s shoulders, holding him in place.

“You are still young, Lindir. Do not scorn yourself merely because you do not possess the experience of those five times older than you.”

“But-”

“No,” Erestor cut him off impatiently and let go of him as he turned towards the door – he glanced back once more before he left, his look serious: “I told you there is yet hope for your heart… but you have to believe in yourself, find your footing. Elrond shoulders much weight by himself; you need to be strong if you wish to stand by his side, as a friend, or as more.”

…………………………………………….

The morning came all too soon for Elrond’s troubled mind: through the night, Erestor’s words kept coming back to him, and Elrond tried to fight them with reason. However, Erestor could be very persuasive when he wanted to, and by the time Arien’s light spilled over the mountains around Imladris, Elrond was already losing the fight.

He dressed himself with heaviness in his heart: if there was one thing he could not argue with at all, it was the fact that Lindir deserved more than being brushed off. If that was to keep the young minstrel safe and sound in Imladris instead of travelling the dangerous roads of Middle-Earth, then Elrond was willing to endure the unpleasant talk ahead of him.

He set about his task immediately: Lindir’s room was empty when he reached it. He checked the Hall of Fire then, where some musicians were already practicing, but he did not find who he sought; next were the libraries and Erestor’s office, but the Noldorin counselor was the only one sitting behind his desk. He looked up at Elrond, a knowing look in his eyes before Elrond could as much as say a word, and then Erestor smiled and rose from his seat, squeezing Elrond’s shoulder gently.

“I wish you the strength to follow your heart, my friend.”

“You could help me find Lindir instead,” Elrond sighed, not wishing to talk to Erestor about his motives right now. He was determined to only explain to Lindir properly why they could not be together in such a way… but arguing with Erestor would only bring about more discussions that would eventually lead to the same conclusion, and would no doubt give Elrond a steady headache.

The counselor smiled mischievously at that request, shrugging:

“It is not my task to search for him, but yours,” he replied, and Elrond sighed, because he could sense the truth in Erestor’s words. He was the one who had hurt Lindir with his behavior… he was the one who needed to set things right.

Elrond searched the house for the better part of the morning; when lunch came about, he hoped to see the one he had been searching for, but Lindir showed up neither in the Hall of Fire, nor in any of the places where Elrond knew him to eat occasionally.

Gardens were next; Elrond knew how much Lindir loved the gardens in any season of the year. The elfling always knew just the right poem for any mood that befell the trees and streams in the valley, and Elrond had enjoyed Lindir’s clear voice reciting those poems on more than one occasion.

With every corner he looked around and found not whom he sought, Elrond grew more and more restless. He had never appreciated just how dear the young minstrel was to him until the shadow of his leaving fell upon Elrond’s mind; even if he could not give Lindir what the elfling wished for, Elrond knew he would miss Lindir were he to leave the valley, and with every moment of his search, Elrond’s worry grew. What if Lindir had decided to leave without telling anyone?

He walked back from the gardens towards the house, wondering if he should check the stables and find out if Lindir’s horse was missing; he was sure Lindir would not leave without the mild-natured chestnut stallion that he had been given as a present for his begetting day not so many years ago. Elrond remembered with fondness the look on Lindir’s face on that day, when he had first laid eyes upon his horse: a bond had been formed instantly between the master and the animal, and Elrond could remember smiling from safe distance at the happiness that had been obvious in Lindir’s eyes.

He passed the training grounds on his way to the stables: sentries were shouting vigorously during their practice, and Elrond smiled weakly even in his worried state. At least the safety of Imladris was in good hands, even with Orcs drawing closer by the day… suddenly, a shout stopped Elrond in his tracks, and he turned abruptly, listening intently to find out if he had heard right. It could not be…

“Come on, Lindir! You did better before, move your right foot- that’s it!”

Elrond’s eyes widened in surprise as he marched towards the training grounds, unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Lindir, who had always been dressed much like Erestor, in heavy robes or formal tunics, stood in a swirl of dust; the simple, light linen of his shirt clung to his sweaty form, half-untucked from his leggings. Some of his hair had escaped the single heavy braid that hung over his back, and he was holding a sword: Elrond could not say he had seen that happen many times before.

He had certainly never seen Lindir’s eyes burn with such determination. The minstrel was sweaty and dirty and a little short of breath, yet a small smile tugged at his lips as he lunged at Glorfindel, who blocked his attack with ease and side-stepped to perform a lazy swing of his own. To Elrond’s surprise, Lindir twisted under Glorfindel’s arm, and the blonde warrior’s blade met with another. Lindir whooped victoriously, and Glorfindel rewarded him with a playful slap with the flat of his sword to Lindir’s thigh: the minstrel yelped and frowned, stepping away as he rubbed the place where he’d been hit.

“Lindir!” Elrond called out, before he could stop himself. The minstrel’s eyes widened at first and his face visibly fell for a moment: Elrond’s heart ached in guilt at bringing such an expression to the young one’s features.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“A word, please.”

With that, he turned and walked back towards the gardens: he did not doubt that Lindir would follow.

And he truly did; when Elrond sat on a bench overlooking the valley, Lindir stood at his side, and tension was visible in his shoulders, in the way he held himself, as if he were afraid of being told to leave.

“Sit with me,” Elrond sighed; he was never one to enjoy being feared, and definitely not by the ones he considered his closest.

Lindir sagged obediently on the marble surface, but remained silent: Elrond knew that it was him who needed to talk.

“Did you think you could hide from me in my own house?” he started with a smile, wishing to bring a lighter mood between them: by the way Lindir tensed momentarily, Elrond knew it had not been the right thing to say. He was simply at a loss when it came to this elfling…

“I hid from no one, my Lord,” Lindir spoke quietly, almost inaudibly over the rustling of the wind. “I just… I thought you did not wish to see me.”

“I always wish to see you, Lindir,” Elrond said, a quiet reprimand slipping into his voice. Lindir looked up at him then, and the disbelief and hope in the elfling’s eyes tore viciously at Elrond’s heart.

“Lindir,” he repeated that name, as if it could point him in the right direction, show him the right words to appease the young one’s heart, “you should be aware that you are not a mere stranger to me. Have I not entrusted you with my home when I needed to ride out against those Orcs?” he asked with a sigh, and Lindir’s eyes darkened for a moment as he looked away, at the beauty of Imladris that lay before them as if painted by a master.

“One day,” Lindir spoke quietly, “I will be worthy of that trust, my Lord.”

And suddenly, it made sense why Lindir had been on the training grounds, where he had not set foot in decades before… Elrond frowned and his heart tightened, and he wished he could put an arm around the young elf’s shoulders: but that would not be appropriate for the talk they needed to have. So he sighed and shook his head:

“You already are. Is that what this is about…?” Elrond asked slowly, glancing over Lindir’s dirty clothes. “You do not need to become something you are not in order to earn my trust.”

Then, the elfling looked at him, straight at him, without blinking or wincing or shying away from Elrond’s eyes, and there was determination, _purpose_ in his features that Elrond had never seen there before.

“Indeed, a capable warrior is not what I am… but it is what I will become. I will gain strength to never again be a burden for anyone… for you, my Lord. If you find it in your heart to forgive my foolishness, I will show you that I am strong enough to stand by your side, in any way you will have me.”

Those words fell like seeds upon fertile land to Elrond’s heart; they took root and opened up a pathway to the feelings Elrond had denied even before himself. There sat not the trembling elfling from yesterday… and Elrond was taken aback by this sudden change so much that he could not but hold that steady gaze. He had never truly seen Lindir as more than a very young elf with a vast talent for music and maybe a promise for diplomacy; but here before him sat a man with a clear goal in his mind, with shoulders wider under that stained shirt than Elrond remembered from under the heavy robes, wide enough to carry and support and hold.

And at that moment, Elrond did not feel like a faceless object of worship, like a man alive only in heroic poetry. The words Lindir spoke rang clear and true with unyielding, selfless love, echoed within Elrond’s soul like a vow of endless devotion, both to a Lord, and to a man.

Elrond swallowed hard, unable to look away from Lindir’s eyes that offered the minstrel’s soul to him so openly. He reached for Lindir’s hand, and the younger elf did nothing to pull away; the touch sent a thrill of something through Elrond, something he had thought dead for centuries. He let his fingers curl around Lindir’s palm; it warmed in him places which he had not thought cold before.

“I can never stop loving my wife,” he said quietly, but it sounded more a question even to his own ears; a question which he should not have asked. He had come here to say different things altogether – but with a simple look, a mere touch, they had evaporated from his mind. His own misconceptions had shielded him from seeing the treasure that lay hidden in plain sight, but now that he had glimpsed the truth, he was unable to forget.

Lindir nodded to the unspoken question, and also to the spoken words.

“I would never think to ask such a thing of you, my Lord.”

“What is it you ask, then?” Elrond questioned, feeling his heart skip a beat; for a moment, Lindir glanced away, and color rose to his cheeks again. Elrond could not explain the dread that seized him at the thought that Lindir would retreat back to his timid shell. He had said that he did not wish for Lindir to become what he was not… but now that he had witnessed the strength that he had never noticed before, Elrond was suddenly eager to see more. It was not about what Lindir was forcing himself to be; it was what the young elf had been hiding from the world, and possibly from himself.

“I ask,” Lindir spoke, and his eyes sought Elrond’s once more, “if there is hope that one day, when I feel worthy, I could tell you what I have failed to tell before. I ask if you will allow me to stand close to you, my Lord.”

Elrond glanced down at their clasped hands: he could feel tremors in Lindir’s fingers, and maybe they were his own as well, he could not say.

“I will,” he answered as he brought Lindir’s hand to his lips: he brushed a kiss against the dust-stained knuckles and the sharp intake of Lindir’s breath above him stirred the affection for the minstrel deep within Elrond’s heart. It would not be soon, and it would not be easy… but Elrond was willing to take that chance and be true to his heart, which had been so simple to read for everyone but himself.


End file.
